


Despondency

by Daughter_of_the_Mountains



Series: Nadadel [16]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Betrayal, Bribery With Alcohol, Bruises, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Near-Kidnapping, Panic, Vengeful Older Brothers, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5719591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_the_Mountains/pseuds/Daughter_of_the_Mountains





	Despondency

The one thing worse than getting out of bed in the morning is getting out of bed early in the morning. It's 6:30 in the morning and he's already been literally dragged from bed, forced into getting bathed and dressed in blue, subjected to a sausage bap for breakfast and now he's sitting on the stool in front of his brother's big mirror having his red locks manipulated into unnaturally tiny braids which criss-cross over a sheet of auburn which has miraculously been left alone for today.

"You know they won't stay like this forever, don't you?"  Glóin asks his brother, hiding a yawn. 

"They don't have to stay like this _forever_ ," Óin says, using the bronze clip to tie the many braids together. "Just for a few hours today." Very carefully, he plants a kiss on the top of his head and gently pushes him. "Get up and help me with mine, would you?"

Glóin knows that Óin can braid his own hair. He wants him to help braid it to try and further his braiding skills. He doesn't even mind if it's a simple plait as long as his pale golden hair doesn't flow over his shoulders. Personally, the younger sibling thinks it's a shame. Keeping it in a plait hides it. Nonetheless, he tries two plaits, one on either side of his brother's head, leading into a plait that grows all the way to the middle of his brother's back and uses the shining steel clip Óin wears every special occasion to clamp the braid together. Óin catches his eye in the mirror and smiles at him. 

"It's really very good, nadadith. Before long, you'll be braiding your own hair!"

"When mountains fall and fish walk."

"You don't have to believe me." Óin retorts, getting up. "Come on, you. Let's get going!"

"But, nadad, I'm tired!"

Óin thinks for a few minutes. Then, conspiratorially, he bows his head to whisper to his ear. "Tell you, what," he whispers. "Come along and don't complain in the temple and I'll let you have a _whole_ cup of _ale."_

That gets Glóin's attention. "Really, brother? A whole _cup?"_

"Just for you."

"You promise?"

"I certainly do. I _might_ even turn a blind eye if you take a sip from my _wine_ cup if you behave especially well," Óin says. 

During Praises Day, each adult is given a crystal goblet filled nearly to the brim with wine, with which to toast Mahal after the prayers and songs. The day after, it is returned to the temple, clean and shining like the memory of Aulë's love and pride to be used for the next Praises Day. "Would it be allowed?"

"I don't care. I am your gêmadad and if I _say_ you can try the wine, you can."

"Alright!" Glóin agrees. "But you must keep your promise if I keep mine." 

Óin links their pinky fingers together. "I swear it. Now, will you come along?"

* * *

It is when they are twenty feet away from the Temple that his nadadith's footsteps stop. He turns to find him down on one knee and he grins wickedly at him. "I'm afraid my heart belongs to my craft, sweetling."

"You daft sod."

"Mind your feckin' language. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, just my laces. Go on and I'll catch up."

Óin looks at the white, stone temple which is barely a minute's walk away and decides he can risk leaving his brother. "Don't take too long or I'll come out and fling you over my shoulder."

"You can try, you big wuss."

Óin chuckles and walks off. "Try I shall!" He calls when he's by the temple door. He then goes inside and heads to their cousins, keeping an eye on the large, ornate clock behind where the juzral now stands.

* * *

 

 Glóin has just finished tying his bootlaces when he sees a shadow. He rolls his eyes. "Nadad, I've been barely two minutes! Mahal's name, you have the patience of a toddler.." He looks up and his smile as his brother's impatience trails off. This isn't his brother. This is some squat, broad Dwarf with an ugly grey hood like the darkest clouds, an odd three-legged symbol etched onto either side of his chest. He can see a pair of dull, brown eyes staring at him and there is a nasty grin playing at what part of his mouth that can be seen under his bristly, grey beard. "Nadad!" Glóin calls, hoping his brother can hear him, hoping the singing hasn't started yet. "Nadad!" He remembers the knife Dwalin gave him some weeks ago, a simple steel blade with a wooden handle and wildly tries to remember which pocket it's in.

"Don't bother, boy. They can't hear you." 

He notices the odd dagger the Dwarf holds. It has a long, curved, wickedly sharp blade. He starts moving back and is forced to throw himself to one side as the blade is brought terrifyingly close to his neck. He drags himself up and runs toward the temple, runs toward the door, trying desperately to get there in time, but there's a sudden pressure around his throat. He reaches up, tries to remove the Dwarf's arm from his neck, but the thick, burly arms don't feel the scratches made by Glóin's nails, or maybe the Dwarf simply doesn't care. He presses harder and harder. Black circles widen in Glóin's sight. Then, slowly, a mist of black darkens all. _'I'm going blind,"_ Glóin thinks. _'He's blinded me. And I feel so tired..'_ It's true. His breathing is slower than it was, his legs feel wobbly and he can't stop his head from tilting back. He jerks weakly, tries to fight but the lack of air is weakening him. The last thing he remembers before the darkness swallows everything is a sudden falling feeling, a burst of pain as though he falls on something hard.

* * *

 

Where is that lad?  Óin looks toward the door and then decides enough is enough. He explains where he's going, Dwalin says he'll come with him and they go to the front door and blink as the sudden, bright sunlight attacks their eyes. And then they see him. Three hims to be exact. A grey-haired Dwarf with a dark grey cloak, a green spiraled gemstone lying in the dirt next to his limp, clearly broken hand, and a dark-haired young Dwarf wearing a deep green tunic of finest velvet and a black cloak with a genuine silver clasp set with a rippling malachite approaching Óin's barely conscious nadadith. 

"No," the little one murmurs, half-dragging a dagger from his pocket. "Leave me be, Fóli! I thought you were _good."_

It is these words that make Dwalin take out his steel-forged sword and call for the guardsmen who line the temple. How did they _miss_ this? Some were outside but Óin doesn't think upon this question very long. Instead, he storms toward the bastard who dared to harm his brother and grabs him by the intricate braid that hangs down his back, hurls him to the floor and kicks him in the ribs. There's a sound caught between a whimper and a gasp and Óin places another to his stomach. He would do more but his cousin takes his shoulder in a huge paw. "Stop that, would you? We need him _alive_ to answer questions. And your brother needs you more than this _scum_ does."

Óin sighs, but lets several guardsmen haul Fóli onto his feet and drag him off. He kneels beside his brother and carefully helps him sit up. He can see a dark, heavy bruise forming on his neck and looks into his brother's eyes before gently touching his forehead with his own. "What happened, nadadith?"

"I tried to _run."_

"It's alright. He had a more dangerous weapon on him, lad. What did he do?"

"He _blinded_ me. He put his arm over my neck and blinded me." 

With every word his brother speaks, the hoarser he sounds. Carefully, he helps him up and squeezes his hands gently. "Did Fóli attack you or was it the other fellow?"

"Other one." Glóin answers in the half whisper-half croak voice.  
  
It would only damage him further to ask questions and Óin starts leading him home. "Come on, laddie. I'll get you something for your throat." He feels Glóin lean limply on his shoulder and squeezes him tighter. He can feel a stray, unraveling braid dangle down, lightly hitting his wrist. "You're alright," he says. "We just have to keep an eye on that bruise of yours, don't we?"

"Hmmm-mm." is the answer Óin receives for his words and he notices how his sibling drags his feet as though he's just gotten out of bed. No wonder he's tired. He takes the turn that will get them home quicker than the usual route, brings him up the path to the door and opens it, allowing him in first.

"I can feel my heart beating."

Óin presses his hand to his brother's chest. He can feel a quick pace pressing up and diving down beneath the sea of blue. "Adrenaline." he says. "You were fighting, weren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Trust you, you little firecracker." He moves his hand from his heart and uses both arms to bring him closer. Now he can feel the steady heartbeat moving against his own chest. Well, a bit below. It slows and calms and he feels his brother press his stubbly face into his shoulder, feels his little arms hold around his waist. He's safe, safe with him and the two scummy fuckers are locked away where they'll get to no other lad or, even worse, lass again. He kisses his forehead. "Come on. Let's get your neck seen to."

 


End file.
